


Remember

by draculard



Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [5]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loneliness of Command, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he spotted Thrawn — out of uniform — in the small kitchen off to the side. As Pellaeon entered the room, he saw that Thrawn was sitting at the counter, a half-empty bottle of liquor at his elbow. There was no corresponding glass to be seen; apparently, he’d been drinking from the bottle.“Ah,” said Pellaeon dryly. “I’ve interrupted your nightcap.”
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Series: Pellaeon/Thrawn 30 Day Ficlets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1904581
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Remember

Pellaeon came to a brisk stop outside Thrawn’s quarters and swiped his code cylinder, requesting access. He waited patiently, tapping his foot only a little, for Thrawn to answer the door.

It didn’t happen. After a long pause, Pellaeon considered his options and swiped his code cylinder again.

“Is it urgent?” Thrawn’s voice said at once from Pellaeon’s comlink.

Pellaeon blinked. He’d never been asked that question before; Thrawn always granted him access right away. “Sir?” he said.

“Is it important?” said Thrawn in the same crisp tone of voice. “Is it vital? Do you absolutely need to come inside?”

Thrown off-balance, Pellaeon ran over all four parameters in his head (urgent, important, vital, need to enter) and said, “Yes, sir.”

There was a brief pause. Thrawn didn’t respond this time; instead, with a muted click, the door unlocked and slid open to let Pellaeon in.

He stepped inside hesitantly. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he spotted Thrawn — out of uniform — in the small kitchen off to the side. As Pellaeon entered the room, he saw that Thrawn was sitting at the counter, a half-empty bottle of liquor at his elbow. There was no corresponding glass to be seen; apparently, he’d been drinking from the bottle.

“Ah,” said Pellaeon dryly. “I’ve interrupted your nightcap.”

Thrawn avoided his eyes, a strange gesture that Pellaeon mentally bookmarked for later examination. “You said it was important,” Thrawn prompted.

“Yes, sir.” Keying his datapad, Pellaeon passed it to Thrawn and said, “The Judicator’s supply run has encountered some unforeseen barriers along the way. Captain Brandei requests further instruction.”

Thrawn pulled the sleeves of his Imperial-issue athletic shirt down over his hands before taking the datapad — apparently to keep any residual alcohol from transferring from his fingers to the screen. He eyed the report for a moment and then carefully typed out his response. 

“Read this over,” he murmured, passing the datapad back to Pellaeon. “And then hit send.”

Dutifully, Pellaeon checked Thrawn’s response. He typed in a few courtesies here and there to allay Captain Brandei’s prickly sense of wounded pride and then sent it with no further corrections. Looking up, he examined Thrawn’s face — turned away from him again, this time so Thrawn could study the liquor bottle — and said without judgment, “You’ve been crying, sir.”

A muscle tightened in Thrawn’s throat. Carefully, he reached up and rubbed away some of the dried salt on his cheekbones. 

“You didn’t interrupt my nightcap,” he admitted steadily, apparently not bothered by Pellaeon’s observation. “You interrupted my drunken breakdown. I’d rather you left.”

Pellaeon digested this. It was impossible to interpret Thrawn’s tone, but if he — like Captain Brandei — suffered from wounded pride, surely he would’ve just snapped at Pellaeon to go away rather than try to make a joke out of it. 

So, weighing his options, Pellaeon pulled out the second chair and took a seat. 

“I’m off-shift,” he told Thrawn, reaching for the bottle. “May as well join you.”

Thrawn watched him drink, his face unreadable. When Pellaeon was finished — pretending the liquor didn’t absolutely _scorch_ his throat — Thrawn took the bottle back and drank, too. 

“So … what were you crying about?” Pellaeon asked. 

Thrawn’s eyes were so heavily-lidded that they were almost closed. “You never get drunk and cry at two a.m. ship-time?” he asked.

“Well…” said Pellaeon. “As a matter of fact, I do, sir. Now and again. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Thrawn gazed at him over the bottle and took another drink. “Would you tell me?” he asked. “If our situations were reversed?”

Their fingers touched when he took the bottle back.

“Failures on the battlefield,” Pellaeon said, taking another swig. “Homesickness. Loneliness. Guilt. Sometimes just stress. We’re soldiers, sir. Do we really need a reason?”

Thrawn's face had twitched somewhere in the middle of Pellaeon's list, but now he smiled a grim smile and took the bottle back. “No, we do not,” he said with a satisfied sort of emphasis. “Precisely right.”

Pellaeon snorted, but accepted defeat with a nod of his head. He watched Thrawn take a bigger-than-necessary drink from the bottle and narrowed his eyes. “How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

Thrawn considered this question carefully and avoided answering by taking another drink. 

“Why were you crying, really, sir?” Pellaeon asked, his voice soft.

Thrawn passed the bottle back. Again, his fingers touched Pellaeon’s, this time lingering a bit too long before he drew back. His skin was cold to the touch. When he smiled, it was the palest, most humorless smile Pellaeon had ever seen.

“I can’t remember,” Thrawn said.


End file.
